


Better Living

by Nope



Category: Robin (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-26
Updated: 2009-01-26
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: Tim knows what's he doing. [Post Batman RIP]





	Better Living

Everything is green in the monitor light. Spread across the console like this, his face pressed against the warmth of the screen, the chemical compounds on display devolve into a blur of burning pinpricks, misting each time a thrust forces a warm gasp of air out of his mouth.

Batman's hands clutch tighter, gauntlet-armored fingers bruising Tim's hips. He wants to think 'Bruce'. It's Batman, somber and silent and relentless, pounding into Tim, Tim into the monitor. He's lost his own cape, but he can hear Batman's rustle. Part of him is cataloging the sound, separating it from the shuffle of bats high above them; from Batman's almost-grunts; from the slick slap of flesh; from his own carefully strangled noises.

Control is the point, after all.

Batman has a steady rhythm, he could go on for hours, but Tim won't let him, keeps shifting his position a little against the console, changing the angle of that thick cock moving inside him, squeezing around it, feeling his own -- shorter, slimmer, he knows by exactly how much, but just hard -- feels it twitch in response, precome leaking. The gauntlets squeeze harder. Batman hisses, just a little. Tim smothers a triumphant smile, deliberately lets slip a soft groan, is rewarded with more weight on him, crushing him, holding him down and still while Batman's cock drags all the way back, punches all the way in, too hard, just hard enough, fast enough.

He has just enough presence of mind to jerk his cape down over the keyboard to catch the mess.

Batman finishes with a few lazy, almost smug thrusts, only the barest catch of breath as he expands inside Tim, only the increasingly wet noises of his sliding cock marking the occasion. His weight settles for a moment on Tim's back, his teeth grazing Tim's neck, then his earlobe, before Batman pulls back and out.

The sudden, profound feeling of emptiness is not assuaged by the rumbling "good boy" Batman leaves in his ear. Tim does not look around, just cleans himself up with the waiting tissues, dumps his cape in the cave's laundry, restocks his belt. By the time Alfred comes down, carrying warm milk and sandwiches, he's sitting alone, in front of the screens, like nothing happened.

#

And it should stop. It should. It's not like he needs this. Kon liked to call him a freak and Bart had announced once over dinner that Tim had intimacy issues and they should all hug him more often and his father, his father--

But Tim was Robin, was all. That meant something. It means something. It's--

Fundamental. It's fundamental.

#

He doesn't mean to, not really, but he can't sleep -- it's day, of course, his body-clock is all wrong -- and there's something in Alfred's eyes, something worryingly like pity and Tim couldn't stand that, not from Alfred. It's Sunday, maybe, a slow, lazy, summer afternoon. The Robin suit accepts his long stare as easily as it does his absence.

In the doorway of the open room, he strips; shucks his T-shirt, kicks off his jeans, and slides into Bruce's empty bed. The sheets are soft, smooth, almost slippery, cool against the unnatural heat in his skin. There's warmth, the very faintest hint of aftershave, a natural concave in the pillow.

Gold dust rises in the sunbeams. Brownian motion.

Tim sees. He remembers. He catalogs. He's always been good at this. Before he was Robin, following Dick and Bruce, learning them, knowing them -- except he was already Robin even then, he just didn't know it yet. Dick had known it first, because he had an intuitive flair for things Tim only came to through careful calculation, through reasoned passion. And then Bruce. Tim had made Bruce see it.

He closes his eyes and feels the bed dip. Calloused hands stroke across his chest. He tenses deliberately, arching, muscles in stark relief, entreating touch, created by the fingertips that outline him. There's a low, throaty chuckle that's all Bruce, but the strength in the hands that push him back flush with the bed is all Batman. Even with his eyes shut, Tim could reach up and perfectly outline each of Bruce's scars. He holds each of them in his memory, a lesson in limits, and in need.

Batman's hand wraps around Tim's cock, strokes him up to straining hardness. Fingers part Tim's lips, press until he parts his teeth, sucks them in. Mewls around them. This is control, too, this breaking, this release. Giving enough slack so they can exhaust themselves on your line and you can pull them in. It's a-- It's a pressure release valve. That's all. He's in control, even with Bruce firmly squeezing his balls, even with Batman taking those wet fingers from Tim's drooling mouth, nudging Tim's legs apart with his knee, reaching between his thighs to press against Tim's entrance. Even with Batman pushing inside, twisting and rubbing. Even with the rising pressure, the heat, the tension coiling like wire in his gut, the lights going off in his head. In control even when he bucks, and shakes, and comes all over that hand, his chest, those oh-too-slippery sheets he's writhing against.

Batman needs a Robin. That was the point. And Robin needs a Batman. That was the point too.

#

Control, like any skill, is something to be practiced and perfected. There is a time and a place for things. He already knows how to compartmentalize, when to be Robin, when to be Tim. He knows how to focus on the case in hand, instead of, for instance, things that are, were, had been, or might be in his literal hands.

He shifts a little on the gargoyle. Nightwing flicks a look his way. Robin resolutely watches the alleyway. The chemical storage warehouse is being ransacked, but they're not after the small-fry. Patience is a virtue. Control is. Batman is a shadow at the corner of his eye, blending into the lines of the parapet. The neons in the mist make everything look underwater, green and insubstantial. Robin resolutely watches the alleyway.

Control can't be mastered outright, is the point. You have to work at it. That's what he's doing.

Robin notes the lookout bouncing from foot to foot as Mister Big (real name pending) gets driven up, looking all around the street, but never up because somehow Gotham never learns. Tim notes the way Batman is right behind him, just close enough to touch, just close enough that Tim, if he wanted, if he had to, could lean back a little and grind his ass against Batman's crotch. Hard enough to be felt even through the armored jock, or soft, like a promise.

Just enough, Tim thinks, to take the edge off.

Gold in the haze. He smothers a cough, sniffles a little, rubs at his nose. Nightwing gives him a questioning look. Robin tugs at his mask a little in irritation, gets a small grin in response and a 'mission on?' wave of a hand. Bruce is silent. Robin nods gratefully and moves, Nightwing with him, out, and over, and down.

Air rushes around them. He lets Nightwing go ahead, bright and cheery even in his blues, bouncing and swinging and being all athletic and acrobatic. Robin prefers his staff, solid in his grip. He likes the weight of it in his hand, the ease of the swing, the meaty thud of impacts, and he's thinking about fighting, damn it. Combat. Control.

He lands lightly, pivots, drives a rising knee into a flabby stomach and turns with it, knocking the man down as well as breathless, using him as springboard towards the next. He knows where everybody is, has cataloged their positions, their likely movements, their reactions to Nightwing and Batman. He's done this a thousand times. Observant. Calculating. That's what he brings to the table.

Nightwing is taking down Mister Big with his usual flair. Batman eats the light. Cloaks crack like wings. Robin rolls, strikes on the leap, springs on the rebound to kick again. Batarangs gleam and squeal in the air. Everything in its time and everything in its place. Nightwing there, and Robin here, and Batman--

Except Dick yells and there's movement where movement shouldn't be and Tim sets and pivots and the bar (lead piping, replacement section, one of twelve) grazes (strike from above-behind-right, a left-handed man, slightly larger) his head and he's (footing limited by where the chemicals will spill when the man's momentum takes him into them) momentarily (control) off balance and his mind goes (white) (green) (gold) blank

(Bruce, Tim thinks. You should have been--)

and a batarang spins into the back of the man's neck, sending stumbling just enough forward that Tim, that Robin can catch hold and add his weight to the lunge, sending the man crashing into the barrels, which break. Something gold, like oil, like not, splashes and flows, thickly, across the ground on either side of his feet, leaving him untouched.

That's what he's supposed to be. Untouched.

"Oh, hey there, pretty lady," slurs out the man he, they just downed, hazy in the fumes.

Batman says nothing, but then he's never needed words for his reprimands. Nightwing keeps looking over, but he doesn't say anything either, at least not to Tim. He does get a few names out of Mister Big, who is really Mister Small Fry because they've wandered into a deal between the Scarecrow and Poison Ivy. When Tim shudders at the name, Nightwing grins for a moment.

"Sure," says the slurry man. "I, I'll kiss you if you want. I don't mind."

Tim knocks him out with a single, well-placed blow.

"I don't think that's the kind of kiss he meant," Dick says and then, like he picked up on the blink Tim knows was invisible behind the mask, "that was a joke."

"Right." Tim stares.

They have the information they came for and sirens sound, so they leave. They don't get far before Nightwing's in his way, lenses out, making him stop.

"I'm fine," Tim says before he can ask. "He barely hit me."

"I wasn't going to ask," Dick says.

Tim can't tell if Dick's telling the truth or not.

"If there's something," Dick starts, and then smiles a little, like he already knows the answer to that. Instead he just rests his hands on Tim's shoulders, looks into his eyes, all warmth and compassionate and sincere and Dick, who once had worn bright colors and hugged a little, mesmerized boy.

Tim calls him big brother, just to make him smile, and they end up sparring on the rooftop, grinning and breathless, and Tim pretends he can't see Batman watching him from the shadows.

#

But afterwards, after Dick has been dropped off, the Batmobile pulls over on some dark side road in the wet Gotham fog under the green dripping trees, and Tim unbuckles his belt (seat, not utility) and his cape and climbs into Batman's seat, into Batman's lap, and they kiss until he can't breathe and then they kiss some more.

Tim collects and files impressions: the hard press of Bruce's lips; the broad sweeps of his tongue; the taste (too sweet and bitter); the scents (faint alcohol and latex and rubber); the heat; the broad expanse of Batman's chest beneath his gloves, the little tremors in the thick slabs of muscle; the clicks of catches; the whisper of cloth; the sudden chill of night air on his aching cock; the rough warmth, the blessed friction, as Batman's arms close around him, hold him close, hold him tight, hold him positioned just right to slide against each other, to hump and rut, making themselves slick with sweat and precome; confirms to deep memory the way he can see Bruce even when his eyes close, when his head goes back, when he bites his lip to keep the scream in; the way he's rubbed himself raw and it hurts so good when he's using his come as lube and just going and going and going until he's fucking drained; the way Bruce doesn't say anything but his name, just once, lust and love and something, some things, too much meaning to comprehend; until Tim, exhausted, collapses against the bat, panting sweet sex thick air.

When they're back in the cave, Robin peels his costume off and Tim pulls on some slacks, sore and aching and oddly clear headed, empty of thought, like the wind passed through him and scattered them into the breeze, and he mechanically cleans his scattered residue off the car seat, breath catching in a cough, and he thinks that he's going to feel like shit in the morning (afternoon) when he wakes (in Bruce's bed, somehow) but he doesn't really care. He doesn't care at all.

#

So maybe he does need it, maybe he does. Is that so bad? Is it? Really?

#

He quits school, because he's already failing half his classes on attendance (and only attendance, because he is in control, and knowing things is what he does, knowing everything is how they work, Batman and Robin, experts at large). Alfred gives him a look and Tim, calmly, swallowing Echinacea and stirring effervescent vitamin c into his orange juice, explains that he can take correspondence college courses between his patrols, that this means he can change his biorhythms to better match his might-owl (wing) (bat) status. He calmly explains about the rise in designer highs, all the extra junkies and dealers on the streets, needing his attention. He calmly and courteously explains that this is better, that it is necessary, that it will make him a more effective, more efficient Robin, so could Alfred maybe, just, please, for one minute, stop going on and on and fucking on about it?!

Tim really doesn't mean to break the glass.

He can't stand the look Alfred gives him, is already up and gone, finds his bike and drives, aimlessly, circling and circling the estate until he catches sight of the black and blue (and gray and gold) and goes back. Batman's hand is heavy on his shoulder, comfort and reprimand. He apologizes to Alfred, and means it, and Alfred accepts, and suggests perhaps he should get some sleep, and it's almost copacetic until Alfred clarifies.

"In your own room, Master Tim."

Tim goes cold. Ice cold. He clenches his fists to stop them shaking.

"It's not good to, well." Alfred considers for a moment. "We all miss--"

Bruce's fingers drift down Tim's spine and he loses track of Alfred for a moment, which is to the good, because he doesn't need a repeated litany of the dead. He knows all their names. There are far, far too many of them, but he knows them all. He keeps them all, in his memory, where he can turn them over and over, like picking at a scab. Bruce's fingers stroke down his back again, harder, bringing his focus back.

"Okay," he says, and, "yeah, okay. Thanks, Alfred. Can, um." He puts the little hesitation in, the swallow. He's in control. Lets his lips spread into an almost smile. "May I have some milk and some of your cookies?"

Alfred brings them to his bedside. Tim pretends to sleep, and someone strokes his hair back, and he really does fall asleep, which is taking pretense a bit too far, waking to tepid milk and lukewarm cookies, a stuffed nose and a foul taste in his mouth. He dumps the milk in the sink, the cookies in his bag (he'll dump at -- no, he quit school -- on patrol, he'll dump them on patrol), leaving a few crumbs on the plate for show.

When he climbs back into bed, Bruce wraps an arm around him, and Tim grins.

#

He dreams of black gloved hands.

#

They're in the shower, soap-slippery and giggle-gasping when his damn T-communicator goes off (his belt, waterproof, is draped over the shower-rod) and he remembers it's supposed to be a Titans weekend. It would be wrong to ignore it, he knows this, but its not until after he's smacked the controls and held himself under the icy cold needles of spray for ten minutes that he can bring himself to towel off, get his Robin on.

There's some crap going on with Slade or maybe Jericho's gone evil or Catman's gone crazy hallucinating about his lions or something. It's not that Tim doesn't know, because he does, he knows exactly, but it's-- It's boring. It's pedestrian. It's the same old, same old. They find the scene. They beat the bad-guys

(He beats them; breaks a knee-cap, an elbow, smashes a few ribs, breaks some noses, a concussion here, two more there, (none his) grapple-gun and twist and whiplash when the line catches is better than being smashed into that floor six foot (inches) beneath you, right, mister bad guy?)

and save the day

("Leave some for us," Eddie quips, his mouth a smile, his eyes serious.)

and then it's back to Titans Tower for tea, ha ha, and it's all incredibly, incredibly pointless. When he looks around the table all he sees is strangers and it's easy, perfectly easy, to quit, though not so easy to bear their easy acceptance or the pity in their eyes.

Batman's eyes are flat and white and don't say anything at all.

#

"There are encrypted files on here," Dick says, from where he's in the console seat, green under the monitors, not looking around though Tim knows he made no noise, is only a quarter of the way down the stairs to the cave.

"Too many people just wander in," Tim says, fingers resting on his belt.

Dick gives him the 'I live here' look. The 'I was here first' look. Tim gives him the 'you were the only one not actually his son' look. Are. You are the only one.

At the console, Tim reaches over Dick's shoulder and types a set of dates -- father, best friend, best friend, father -- and says "Knock yourself out" as the screen fills with biological and chemical data.

So he considered cloning his dead friends. So what? It's not insane. Kon was just a clone anyway. Tim knows what he's doing. He's thought it through. Calculated it.

He knows what he's doing.

#

He dreams of Bruce, coming apart into specks of gold, whirling away on the breeze, and wakes, coughing, in an empty bed.

#

They wear condoms, it's only sensible, and Tim closes his eyes and thinks he can get used to the taste of latex as he angles his neck and swallows around Bruce's cock, sucking deep until his nose is pressed against the wall of muscle. Batman holds perfectly still. Tim does all the work, sliding back and forth, bobbing his head as his tongue works circles against Bruce's head before taking Batman deep again and again, stroking himself in time.

Or: they're in bed and Batman is wearing the cowl and the chest piece and Tim, naked, wrapped in Batman's cape, his hands resting on the bat, fingers scratching involuntarily at the symbol, straddles Batman's cock and rides slow inch after inch, up and down, in and out, clenching and unclenching as the thick length stretches and fills him.

Or: they're in the shower again, and Tim closes his eyes and ducks his head under the heat of the spray and Bruce presses in close behind him, traces his ribs and down, wraps soapy fingers around Tim's cock and strokes slow and tight, or trails kisses against the sharp edges of his hips, or wiggles slippery fingers into Tim's ass to twist and rub and press.

Or. Or. Or.

#

Bruce never bites his neck, but he leaves small, finger shaped bruises in places Tim can touch, over and over.

#

Alfred has taken to putting wrapped up meals in his gear and Tim has taken to taking a few bites for show and then dumping them while on patrol. If his costume is ill fitting, it's because he's been working out so much, fighting so often. He's sleek. Wiry. He always has been.

He keeps the streets clean. Boy wonder. Good soldier.

They're crossing the botanical gardens, Robin a red flash in Batman's shadow, Nightwing on his heels

("We're still sharing the case, right, little bro?")

when a man comes stumbling out, sees them and laughs, points a trembling hand and yells "a ring, a ring, for the skeleton king--" and then Robin's boot catches him in the sternum and he goes flop flop down. Robin back-flips to land neatly, and Tim steps forward to kick the downed man, one, two, three more times.

It's important to be sure. To be in control of a situation.

"One of Scarecrow's," he says to Nightwing. "This is the place."

Nightwing doesn't say 'we already knew that'. Confirmation is good, isn't it?

"Watch out for Ivy," Dick says.

"I know," Robin says and takes a running jump onto a handy truck and then up again to a handy windowsill, and up to just catch a flagpole and swing and up and somehow Nightwing is already on the roof, but so what? One step, two, three, and a forward somersault into the skylight, feet first, falling in the middle of a shower of glass and cries from every direction.

Ivy is red and green, green, green, slow and smooth. Her smile blossoms on her face. Sensual. Sexy, Tim supposes. The air around her is hazy. It's too warm in here, even with the outside cold sneaking in around the greenhouse heat.

Robin breaks someone's skull with his staff without looking around.

Ivy's chuckle is deep and rich. Earthy. Holy plant puns, Batman. A dark laugh. He grins. A birdarang in both hands. Batman and Nightwing, of course, but he's in control. Top of his game. Cuts Ivy's ivy, leaping through her howls of rage. One henchman, two henchman, three hench, four. Movement and haze. Screams when he throws. Fuck them.

Lips on his, suddenly, out of the green, out of the dark, something thick and cloying in his nostrils, then gone.

He smells Bruce.

"You don't want to fight me," Ivy says, trailing a finger against his shoulder. "Do you, boy wonder?"

"No," he says, truthfully.

"Good boy," Ivy says, starting to turn away, and he jabs, fingers stiff and outstretched, driving the air from her body.

Surprise is etched in her features. He laughs, wild and free, and punches her, hard as he can. There are more of those barrels, liquid greengold, and she goes into them, through them. Everything splashes. Vines and trees everywhere. He hits her again, again. Weeds. Flowers. Endless dark blooming flowers, bursting with dusty pollen. Green and gold. He hits her again.

It's okay, Tim thinks. She's just a plant.

Anyway, Nightwing's pulling him back, saying something about chemicals, like Tim doesn't know about chemicals, and plants, like Tim isn't the lead here, isn't in control.

He looks for Batman.

"Oh," says Ivy, a grin in her voice, lips blooded grin. "Oh, that is delightful."

She stretches, effortless. Sprawled out on ruins like they were a queen's bed. He could hit her a thousand times and he'd never touch her. There are always weeds in the garden.

"Poor lost boy," Ivy smirks.

Nightwing ties her up. Plastic ties. They'll hold for long enough. Here come the sirens and the men in white coats for Crazy Pam. It's all under control. It is. It is.

Gold dust falls around them like rain. Tim looks for Batman, but he can't see him anywhere.

"Sweet dreams," Ivy calls out, laughing as they take her away.

Nightwing -- Dick's looking at him. Tim can't see Dick's eyes through the mask, but it's not like that's ever slowed any of them down. He attempts to look bored, tries for resigned, companionable, yet-another-crazy, but his hand twitches towards his belt, and he knows Dick sees it, so. Fuck it.

He shoots a line, pulls, swings, just goes, up and out and up again until there's nothing but moonlight and rooftops and the whisper of capes.

#

He dreams a red slicked boomerang. He dreams a boy and a fallen tower. He dreams slow blows. He dreams a helicopter exploding, falling like rain.

He dreams fields and fields of blooming flowers.

#

The bedside drawer is empty.

All the house lights are out but the garden lights are on, washing the rooms in tall shadows and liquid gold, and the bedside drawer is empty. Tim throws it down, then kicks the whole thing over. Empty. Bruce's room, but it only smells of polish. Faint lemon starch. His nose is running. He coughs, clears his throat, coughs again. The drawer is empty and the room is empty and his head is, is--

No one in his room. Nothing in his closets, or under his bed, or wedged behind the air-brick. No one in his shower. No room to hide. It's only big enough for one, of course. The boy in the mirror is gaunt, dark-circled, hair wild.

(He remembers Ivy. Liquid lips. A leaf-speckled curve of breasts, of ass. A smooth expanse of delicious green. Those long, long legs. Nothing. There's nothing.)

He goes back out to the garden but the vegetable patch is empty, fresh dug over. Bruce isn't out here. He's not in his room, or Tim's room (or Dick's, or Jason's, or Cassie's, or Thomas and Martha's) or the dining rooms, or the library, or the study, or the lounge, or the kitchen (where he calmly and courteously empties the draws one by one in quick, simple succession). He's lost--

The clock chimes, one, two, three. Chemistry. Biology. Physics. Nature abhors a vacuum. Emptiness isn't meant to be.

"I'm in control," he tells the clock, and it's face is impassive though his voice breaks and he has to pound at it, over and over, until he can get the secret release to let him into the cave.

Tim takes the stairs five at a time, leaps from the half-way point to slide the rest of the way down the dinosaur. The bays aren't empty, but the vehicles are, his Redbird, and the Batmobile, the cycles, the boats, the plane. The lab is neat and tidy and when he breaks the third glass jar white, acrid smoke rises up from the wet spot on the wall.

Physics. Biology. Chemistry.

He screams at the bats and wipes his face on his sleeve and throws himself at the computer, digging out files, but the only logs are Nightwing's because he's been deleting his own for months and Bruce is, Batman is--

(He dreams of whirling flames and black hands.)

Big empty house. Big empty cave. Empty and green in the monitor glow. Empty and green.

(Ivy laughs. "Sweet dreams!" Are made of this. Are made of this.)

There's a noise. A foot on the stairs. Tim turns slow. Dark blues. A flash of gold.

"Batman," he whispers, he prays.

And he's across the room in a flash (the quick and the dead) wrapping his arms around leather and spandex, searching for lips with exquisite relief, holding tight and mumbling "Bruce, Bruce, Bruce", except there's no kiss back, the jaw line is wrong, the chest is thinner, the shoulders slightly lower, and the smell is wrong, all wrong, because, because--

"Tim?" Dick asks. "Wh-what are you doing?"

Tim pushes him away -- pushes away from him, because Dick doesn't move, but Tim does, stumbling backwards, back again. Doubles over. Retches. Dry. When did he last eat? What? Retches again. Dick touches his shoulder and Tim tries to throw him off, but his arms won't work.

"Bruce," he coughs out. "Where's Bruce?"

"Is that what--?" Dick's hand forces him round. Tim doesn't look up. Control. He's in. Dick's hand is on his chin. His other hand is raised, closed, a fist.

Tim tries to raise his own. He knows how to fight. He knows--

Except what Dick actually does is say, "is this what you were looking for?" and uncurls his fingers.

Gold dust tumbles down between them.

No, not dust, Tim knows. Not physics, chemistry. Biology. Pollen. Ivy Scarecrow special. Rosemary for remembrance. Mescaline for immersion. Phenethylamine triggers. Serotonin 5-HT2A. Sweet dreams are made of these.

"That's mine," he says stupidly, and then, again, angrily. "That's mine!"

"It's poison," Dick says, and dodges when Tim makes a grab. "It's killing you, Tim. Bruce wouldn't want this--"

"You don't know anything," Tim insists, forcing his voice down, forcing it even. It comes out as a growl. "You don't know what we have."

"I know it hurts," Dick says. "You think I'm not hurting?"

"He always loved me more," Tim snaps out, lunging again.

Dick hits him. Maybe he doesn't mean too. It's only a glancing blow.

"You think this would make proud?" Dick asks, yells.

"Batman knows," Tim yells right back. "It makes me better! It makes us--"

"He's dead," Dick screams at him. "Bruce is dead!"

The silence is deafening.

"No," Tim says.

"He's dead," Dick repeats, soft, almost a sob.

"No," Tim says. Toneless. Just. No. No.

Because he remembers. He

(Gold between his fingers, oily and gritty; gold; the scent, the taste, sweet and bitter.)

does. Because he's in control. He is. Because he remembers, he's cataloged, and

(Bruce is kissing him; Bruce is pushing him against the console; he is--)

Dick is lying, he is, and Tim yells, and lunges and Dick, off guard, turns too slow, and they hit together and go over and tumble down and down and

(and he's in the shower, jacking himself, sliding fingers into his own ass; he's humping the leather chair, the silky sheets, the laid out cowl; he's sliding his lips down the condom-covered night-stick; pounding it into his own ass; touching himself, over and over in the gold green haze) 

no no no and they hit the stupid giant penny, Dick straight on and Tim on Dick and it goes down and they go down and everything, everything breaks and Tim's

(touching himself and calling his own name, and Bruce's. and Batman's, Bruce's, Batman's rest in peace, rest in)

crying, scrambling at Nightwing who is heavy and still, and Tim's fingers come away red and perfect, perfect gold.

He breathes. He breathes. It's okay. Bruce is coming back. Bruce always comes back. Dick never understood.

Tim needs Bruce; Robin needs a Batman.

Other footsteps, now, a querulous noise, and then a shocked gasp. Tim looks up to see Alfred hurrying down, face pale with horror.

"Master Timothy! Master Dick!"

Blood slowly pools around the base of the penny. Alfred is running, running, running. Tim is smiling.

"It's okay, Alfred," he says. Calmly. Courteously. He smiles. "I've got it all under control."

And he takes another pinch of pollen.


End file.
